


The Myrmidon Cycle

by lnhammer



Series: Greek Myth Sex Farces [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Metamorphoses - Ovid
Genre: Ants, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Hunters & Hunting, I Fixed Your Myth Cycle For You, M/M, Modern Retelling, Multi, Paternity Suit, Plague, Poetry, Racing, Rhyme Royal Stanzas, Sex Farce, Significant Oak Tree, Swords & Sandals, Threesome - F/F/M, War, Why getting your natural history right matters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27267484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lnhammer/pseuds/lnhammer
Summary: The plague came out of nowhere. No one knewWhat god or goddess sent it, and the signs,When not ambiguous, were all too few:The oak leaves still, the livers whole and fine,From left and right the birds flew in straight lines,And worst of all, the tea leaves all refusedTo form a pattern readers could have used.Or, because the mythographers were mistaken about certain fundamental facts of the natural history of ants, such as that workers and soldiers are female, they got several stories completely wrong.
Relationships: Aeacus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)/Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Atalanta & Meleager (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Atalanta/Hippomenes | Melanion (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Original Female Character/Original Male Character/Original Female Character, Tiresias (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)/Original Female Character
Series: Greek Myth Sex Farces [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097087
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. The Myrmidons

The plague came out of nowhere. No one knew  
What god or goddess sent it, and the signs,  
When not ambiguous, were all too few:  
The oak leaves still, the livers whole and fine,  
From left and right the birds flew in straight lines,  
And worst of all, the tea leaves all refused  
To form a pattern readers could have used.

And so Aegina suffered under doubt  
As well as spotted fever. Amid the death  
And raw despair, a couple souls were stout  
And tended invalids to their last breath;  
But others, I report to my regret,  
Were drunken, rowdy, riotous, and rude—  
In short, a bacchanalic rout ensued.

The harbor, drunk with sailors, caught the mood,  
And soon from there the tide of riot spilled  
To sweep depopulated streets in flood  
Until the city plain was all but filled,  
A violent lake—except where good sense stilled  
The fires round two places, islanding  
Plague houses and the palace of the king.

King Æacus was long since past his prime  
And, not as strong as once, in youth, he'd felt,  
He couldn't stop the carnival of crime.  
His sons? Off heroing with club and pelt  
And so no help with troubles he'd been dealt.  
They're only known today for being hid  
In family trees, and not for what they did—

For _hero_ means "he scatters wide his oats,"  
And heroes' brats are strewn across the nations  
Like jetsam tossed from overloaded boats.  
Son Telamon apprenticed that vocation  
With the greatest of the generations:  
No lesser man than he—a drum roll please—  
The man, the myth, the legend—Heracles.

Soon after Telamon had helped the Herc  
To conquer Troy, he spawned the Ajax who  
Would later try to replicate that work.  
Young Peleus sacked as well a town or two  
Before he gave a fateful goddess woo;  
His son Achilles had his song of rage  
That still is read in this descendent age.

Thus, sonless, Æacus was forced to handle  
The crisis, and he too old to wield a sword—  
Which added to his shame, for the scandal  
Of crumbling state will always hurt a lord,  
Since he is judged by his domain's accord.  
And so, as when mere anarchy is loose,  
He did what monarchs do, and prayed to Zeus.

During a lull, he climbed the island's peak  
Alone (though leaning on the shoulder of  
His—valet of the chamber), there to seek  
The god's will in his place—for there above  
Aphaea's temple is a sacred grove.  
He tottered in and settled in the shade,  
Then after catching breath, he slowly prayed:

"Dear father—so my mother says you are,  
And I think well enough of Mom that I  
As king renamed this island after her—  
Help us or the city soon will die:  
What plague has left, the riots have made fly.  
We ask in whatever name you wish we use,  
Help us—the city dies if you refuse."

The sun beat down. Summer's cicadas chirred.  
Some ants marched up a tree. A gecko found  
A hidden moth. At last the old king stirred  
And from an empty sky, with dreadful sound  
A bolt of lightning struck and fire crowned  
The Thunderer's most sacred oak—a sign  
Unerring of assistance that's divine.

The crack set Æacus's head to ringing.  
"Give me—" he started, feeling full of awe,  
"Give me—" he thought he heard the acorns singing,  
"Give me—" alas! slow thinking was his flaw,  
"Give me—" he took the first thing that he saw,  
"As many citizens, replacement folk  
For losses, as the ants upon this oak."

Leaves whispered to a wind not there, then stilled.  
The king correctly heard that message too,  
And toddled home, secure that Zeus had willed  
His realm reborn, his populace renewed.  
He was so heartened, he decided to  
Go past the citadel down to the city,  
Nod, smile, clasp hands, be seen, and do the pretty.

For being seen at being king is, more  
Than judgements, generaling, or golden throne,  
The greater part of kingship. Even for  
The weak, an order makes a leader known.  
A word stopped refugees from leaving town:  
"It all will turn out right now," he assured.  
The sailors looked askance, but none demurred.

To fully play the part, back at the castle  
He ordered up a feast in celebration.  
The palace cheered—except, it was a hassle  
For servants, fixing quickly the collation.  
That night, the castle's total occupation  
Was fun, both eating hard and drinking deep,  
Which led to—not more riots—heavy sleep.

In deepest night, the hour of Hecate,  
The quiet of the world rolled out before  
The city and the stars. The king's oak tree  
Shook branches like maids stretching after chores.  
Ants fell to ground, and got up ants no more:  
They lost two limbs, stood upright straight and strong,  
A formic horde become a human throng.

When Dawn rose from her lover's bed to light  
The east, 'twas well before the better folk,  
But after early servants. To their fright,  
The mountain side was moving—was it smoke?  
No, it's descending, like a falling cloak.  
The growing light revealed to servile classes  
A ragged stream of strapping naked lasses.

For myrmidian workers—soldiers, too—  
Are female; they're the only ones who swarm,  
While hustling for the food they bring back to  
The queen and drones in their below-ground dorms.  
'Twas these upon the oak who were transformed,  
And those who change partake of prior nature  
For what you were before will shape your fate here.

The past is—not the present—present in us;  
We aren't slaves to it, but as we grow  
We have its habits and, as mirrors twin us,  
It gives us shadow selves we cannot disavow:  
What we have done informs what we are now—  
But if I keep digressing from my topic  
My story line will end up microscopic.

The servants, startled, finally woke the guards;  
A guard, the king: "Your majesty, come see!"  
He came, he saw, he rubbed his eyelids hard,  
And mumbled, "What the ——!" (I am not free  
To print the word). But then, with gravity,  
The king went out to greet what for the nonce  
We'll call "ant girls"—in Greek, the myrmidons.

He met, midst smoking ruins by the wall,  
This unclothed cohort causing a sensation  
And hailed them, thanking Zeus for, most of all,  
His answered prayer—this in explanation  
Of what was going on to the staring nation.  
It worked, for just a few men hit upon  
These women—who ignored them and walked on.

This shrug-off irked the men, who started grousing,  
But then a charred beam shifted in the dust,  
Reminding people soon they'd need more housing—  
Although new clothing also was a must.  
Before ancestral voices had discussed  
The tasks, the women from the ant collective  
Just dusted off their hands, and turned effective.

Burials first. They learned that, during the clashes,  
The plague had burned itself out, once refused  
New fuel, on quarantined survivor ashes.  
The obvious conclusion from the clues:  
The cure'd been carried by the girls from Zeus.  
Their epidemiology was slight,  
But their theology may well be right.

The girls received the kingdom's reverence  
With calm good grace, then started reconstruction.  
Some city men with vast experience  
Tried giving all these new-borns some instruction,  
But ants and building need no introduction;  
Relations with the townsmen turned uneasy,  
For all that they were Greeks and civilisé.

Continued nakedness too caused a snit—  
While some, the outside workers, took to clothing,  
The others, never having needed it  
Before, rejected its constraint with loathing—  
And there is, for a hide-bound elder, no thing  
That signals civic ill-health like the crudity  
Of unselfconscious public nudity.

The king worked soothing old men's ruffled feathers,  
But who'd soothe his? His issue was, despite  
Their civic efforts, one of duty: whether  
As subjects ants obeyed him, king by right.  
They didn't hear his orders—no, not quite—  
They listened, but then didn't seem to heed him.  
It was as if they didn't really need him.

They did it well—'twas several days, at least,  
Until he noticed he had been deflected  
To planning the next sacrificial feast  
And not the new defense to be erected—  
A skill that came from practice: they'd protected  
Drones' fragile egos from all things that vex  
To keep them trained on their sole purpose—sex.

That's not to say they didn't value It—  
Indeed, with drones reserved for royal thirst,  
They prized it more because 'twas illegit.  
The habits of hands-off were kept at first,  
Confusing many men, when they conversed—  
They didn't understand that going nude  
Says nothing for how easily you're screwed.

But then an ant tried it, and soon all learned  
That every woman is a queen to men—  
Once homage has been horizontally earned.  
They took to having sex like sailors when  
On shore leave, if you credit that—but then,  
According to the deeply held male credo,  
There's nothing, nowhere, stronger than libido:

Sex drives our species: for our procreation,  
We do all that we do that is outstanding;  
Sex drives our drive for wealth: it marks our station,  
And nothing's sexier than social standing;  
Sex drives the arts—not just love songs' demanding,  
For all the Muses are invoked to aid  
Success for artists hoping to get laid;

Sex drives our social structures: "Marry me";  
Sex drives our mores: in our mating dance,  
Without rules for the steps of he and she  
The rituals turn discordant, askance,  
As partners lurch about and don't advance—  
As soon our sex-mad ingenues found out  
When their stumbling turned the ball into a rout.

The girls' miscues were bad enough—their chase  
Also tripped on sexual disparity:  
They had replaced one third the populace  
(Those dead or fled), so men were one in three;  
While two on one might seem a fantasy,  
When the two women both are too voracious  
And squabble over you—now that's hellacious.

Their own behavior shocked each myrmidon—  
Were not they all from the same city/nest?  
Hadn't they worked together, fed the young,  
Dug tunnels, gossiped, eaten as a mess,  
Defended colony, and all the rest?  
As sisters, they were sickened by their fighting,  
But shock alone won't make you do the right thing.

Without a queen or history to guide them,  
They quarreled—when provoked or just because.  
The ones who could have helped now evil-eyed them:  
Surviving wives and widows, their angry buzz  
Provoked by these replacement thieves of hus-  
bands, widowers, and bachelors—worse, the bitches  
Had focused most on those with well-filled britches.

Through all this, reconstruction still proceeded—  
The unrest wasn't civil, but erotic—  
And yet, the more that Æacus softly pleaded  
For moral self-restraint, the more quixotic  
His toothless campaign seemed—and life, chaotic.  
He persevered, for he was not a quitter,  
But still, at times, he almost could feel bitter.

The worst part was his saviors—all those good,  
Hard-working girls—brought this domestic flu,  
Infecting subjects with their attitude  
Like some new plague—which told him what to do:  
The first was cured by gods, so this one too.  
But prayers sent to Zeus would here depart amiss—  
For these unmarried women, go to Artemis.

The temple of Aphaea on the hill  
Was sacred to a nymph who, by that name  
Or as Dictynna or another still,  
Attended the wild goddess who they claimed  
Was that great huntress giving Delos fame—  
As Artemis, or also Hecate,  
Aeginetans revered her specially.

For Greeks, you understand, were not so anal  
As all those tidy myths make them appear,  
Which turn religion into something banal.  
Cults of Olympians were not so dear  
As local shrines, or graves that gave them fear—  
There is more power in a nearby ghost  
Then all the gods of heaven's distant host.

Her temple offered rites of incubation—  
That is, a vigil overnight to pray  
The goddess helps you with your situation.  
The king climbed up the mountain, sans valet,  
And after ritual cleansing, groped his way  
Into the darkened sanctuary where  
He lay upon a deer-hide, solitaire.

He listened in the quiet for her veiled  
Small voice—but silent night was too well heard—  
The crickets cricked—the nightingales engaled—  
The itch was out of reach—at times he stirred  
To ease his joints—his focus always blurred.  
At last, he found the still point and could keep  
Composed enough to hear ... and fell asleep.

He had no dreams, but, waking—there—a sense  
Of what to do, that seemed to linger on.  
He left the temple with some confidence  
And, slipping past his keepers in the dawn,  
He hailed the first new girl he came upon,  
The leader of some hunters: "Come with me."  
She waved her troop on with alacrity.

Her deference came from, the king inferred,  
His air of firm command. But while he'd sought  
Some goddess aid, a myrmidon had heard  
A townsman call him "Queenie" with a pout.  
The word ignited, like a spark in drought,  
The tindered consciences of myrmidons:  
"A queen? not drone? He'll know where we've gone wrong!"

He passed throughout the city, picking here  
A trainer in the new palaestra, yonder  
A wife directing husband-fetching, there  
A building foreman, on a harbor wander  
A female stevedore, and when he found her  
His new ant steward—he pulled this human tide  
Up to the temple and locked them all inside.

These leaders made by local acclamation  
Were not allowed to leave till they created  
An answer for the domestic situation,  
Thus: New girls and survivors were equated,  
And every man of age to would be mated  
To one of each, with this constraint: all three  
Must live in mutual fidelity.

Because the tripling method must be fair  
To all, before anyone else could try,  
The girls had organized a system where  
A weighted choice of mate could modify  
That first informal rule of thumb, whereby  
A husband, if all three of them connived,  
Could have two town- or oak-born as his wives.

The news was greeted with relief—for here  
Were rules for their sex ratio that seemed  
Both equally (un)fair and not austere.  
The plan was more complex than the king had dreamed,  
But Æacus could grasp this fact: the scheme  
Required king and castle to be listed  
Among potential grooms—the girls insisted.

Alas for Æacus! He'd gotten heirs,  
And duty done, he wanted his delayed ease  
In arms of—well, in casual affairs;  
And now both he and his were given ladies  
He'd rather not have—that is—he—oh, _Hades!_  
I see I'll have to tell you all the sordid  
Specifics of the household, clearly worded.

I'd hoped to gloss this over, but such is fate.  
By now, the chance I'll get a PG-rating  
Is slimmer than a draw for inside straight,  
What with the girls promiscuously mating,  
So there's no point in prudish hesitating—  
Besides, a poet who won't tell what's true  
Not only lies, but is a scoundrel too.

The king liked boys—or young men, I should say.  
He'd married young at duty's harsh direction  
But when his first wife died, without delay  
He indulged his paedic predilection  
Learned from a mentor held in fond affection.  
That "valet" was a pretty teen, well-bred,  
Who dressed him, yes, but also warmed his bed.

No more though—no more sleeping in his arms;  
No more watching youth turn, with the days,  
Into a man; no more his boyish charms  
Nor his hard body that led thoughts astray;  
No more teaching a young protégé—  
For Kallimorphos, when he could contrive,  
Abandoned Æacus for his twin wives.

These childhood friends together had planned his break  
From royal duties. The king, not knowing this,  
In private cursed how Chance made him forsake  
His chance for happiness—exchanged for his  
Two ants. At least his had good statuses:  
Two leaders, both negotiators, who'd  
Grown fond of this old man who wasn't lewd.

The chief of huntresses, blonde Cyrene,  
Thought from her dawn encounter that the king  
Was as quick-witted as leaders need to be.  
Lampito knew, from daily stewarding  
His castle, otherwise—while valuing  
That all he did he did with good intent,  
And, too, his pliancy to management.

When she'd arrived, the management was needed—  
Old steward dead of plague, staff disarrayed;  
She'd started giving orders; they were heeded.  
The king'd ignored his household while it frayed  
To dodder round his country—which dismayed  
An erstwhile ant who pined for household order:  
The queen's house and the state had shared one border.

Between his servicing two wives (while jealous  
Of his valet) the king could hardly stay  
Upright. At least Lampito was less zealous  
Near Cyrene, who balanced out her ways,  
But by first light, her co-wife went away  
On hunts, which left him in Lampito's hands,  
Her energy, her strength, and her demands.

The other men had no advice for him:  
The elders, even those remarried, all  
Had older wives who cut their juniors' trim;  
The youngsters, on the other hand, could call  
Upon their energy. These national  
Small compromises they were fashioning  
Were different for the commons than the king.

Which goes to show that every permutation  
Of bodies and of beds both can and will  
Be tried—through all the times and nations  
A marriage party usually is filled  
Per balance of the sexes. It's hard, still,  
Because of claims from old religious quarrels,  
To keep in mind conditions make our morals.

But such is life, distractible and local—  
Like fights that have become their own excuse.  
The king retreated into bland but vocal  
Pigheadedness, pretending to be obtuse  
On issues they debated—from the use  
Of palace funds, to plans for his domain:  
Not dredge the channel—repair the harbor chain.

"Without good trade, there'll be no revenue,"  
She argued, "and defenses cost too much."  
What can a wife (and former steward) do  
When her good sense has been ignored? She clutched  
Her righteousness, and upped demands a notch.  
He thought he'd reached the depths of his dismay—  
Then Cretan Minos rowed into the bay.

This ruler soi-disant of all the seas  
Had wrested Crete from regent brothers, all  
So he and his could do just as they please—  
Wife's tastes were bestial, son's beastial,  
Which worked, for his were architectural.  
He'd heard of small Aegina's plague and flight  
And thought he'd conquer it without a fight.

Alarms! Excursions! Mobilize our forces!  
War ships in harbor! Enemies have come!  
King Æacus was filled with all remorses—  
He'd let the stubborn fight distract him from  
Those critical defenses. He felt numb,  
Especially when the ultimatum came:  
Immediate submission or the flame.

Lampito realized, as her husband claimed,  
Expensive walls and weapons were really needed;  
The thought she'd weakened the nest left her shamed.  
As men's and myrmidons' demands exceeded  
Her rationed swords and shields, her hopes receded,  
But with her co-wife gone—off hunting things—  
'Twas left to her alone to aide the king.

Each side's commander soon received reports:  
Aegina's rocky shores were all secure,  
With no place for a landing but the port—  
But there, alas, defensive works were poor.  
The myrmidons were news, unknown before,  
But Minos didn't do a double-take.  
"More women? Ha! They're nothing." Big mistake.

Formalities: Aegina spurned surrender.  
Thus answered, Cretans landed on the quay,  
To find that they were fighting either gender:  
The men were trained, but women meaner—they  
Threw all their strength and numbers in the fray,  
All weapons raised against invading males:  
Swords, brickbats, pointy sticks, teeth, fingernails.

At first they held their ground. Their viciousness  
Unnerved the Cretans—myrmidons fought hard,  
Ignoring danger, to protect their nest,  
And men, to save their wives. Thus caught off-guard,  
They were confined and couldn't gain a yard,  
But with good armor and their better training,  
The Cretans forced a breech, and soon were gaining.

They battled house to house, result unclear,  
Till Cyrene at last came from the hills  
With all her huntresses, each armed with spears—  
All former soldier ants fresh from the kill.  
Resistance stiffened under her—but still,  
The Cretan front kept rising up, not falling:  
The death rate of defenders was appalling.

The myrmidonic tactics were the cause:  
Their sense of strategy was mass attack  
In crowded interference, without a pause  
To make sure that reserves were at their back.  
Retreat on purpose? The thought took them aback.  
King Æacus soon realized that while he  
Was not obeyed, they'd follow Cyrene.

But she was in the deepest thick of things  
And wouldn't back out either. It was hot,  
But shielded by Lampito, our brave king  
Worked through the battle din to where she fought—  
Which made the ants who saw him quite distraught—  
And once he caught her and her sole attention,  
He then explained his tactical intention:

That first, Aeginetans in front fall back  
To draw the Cretans out, then sides sweep in  
Behind their rear, now open to attack.  
The plan was good, but Cyrene didn't grin—  
She saw a flaw, much to the king's chagrin:  
"What keeps our enemy, while we retreat,  
From pressing on to finish our defeat?"

Lampito, with her managerial skills,  
Knew what: unused material for planned  
New houses could make barricades to fill  
The streets, behind which fighters could safely stand.  
The work was quickly done at her command,  
And Cyrene then plunged where battle pressed  
To give the word: fall back, sweep round, invest.

They fell back in good order; with fighters freed,  
As quick as knives her counter then attacked  
The Cretans. Minos missed what happened—he'd  
Blinked—suddenly, instead of helpless city sacked,  
He'd lost his landing party. His wrist smacked,  
He soothed his ego with an easy crime  
And went to bully Athens one more time.

They held a sacrifice in celebration—  
This after clean-up—during which they mourned  
And newly dead were given their libation.  
That done, while some remarriage plans were formed,  
They partied hard—though Æacus was scorned  
By Kallimorphos. Thrown into a funk,  
He was consoled by getting rather drunk.

The skills of both his wives were sorely tested,  
Cajoling him through the dregs of his expense—  
Hung over, he was crabby and congested.  
At least each thought well of the others' sense  
(Their organizing, his experience)  
And mutual respect—domestic grease—  
Is the sole basis for a lasting peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First appeared in _The First Heroes: New Tales of the Bronze Age_ (2004) edited by Harry Turtledove and Noreen Doyle.


	2. Myrmidons in Calydon

The boar came out of nowhere, so they knew  
By this and other signs—its angry eyes,  
The damage targeted to rooting through  
The just-ripe crops, but most of all its size—  
From whom it came. But no one could surmise  
The reason—what had someone done amiss  
To rate the wrath of Lady Artemis?

When questioned, everyone denied offence,  
And while it's true that Calydon omitted  
Her in their harvest rites, this lack made sense  
For all agreed the Huntress poorly fitted  
With grape or grain—not even the clever-witted  
Could make such jealousy seem rational.  
Divinities aren't random, after all.

Regardless, for whatever goddess reason,  
The Lady of the Beasts had sent her rage  
Which must be dealt with in this harvest season.  
But how? They couldn't spear nor trap nor cage  
Nor fence nor scare it off. To assuage,  
All Calydon (and king) must make a clear  
Apology or starve this coming year.

His household hero and his seers stumped,  
King Oeneus agreed to call for aid:  
A council of the pious—though he grumped  
The time it'd take to have the lot conveyed  
Would keep his kingdom's field repairs delayed;  
But while it cost him feasts, flute girls, and liquor,  
'Twas cheaper than an oracle—and quicker.

Son Meleager had instead suggested  
That he invite heroic help: by deeds,  
Not words, Aetolians think men are tested—  
Besides, this boar was not a mountain breed.  
But he could not convince Dad of their need,  
Although he was of age now—if no more—  
Because he'd so far failed to kill the boar.

Indeed, this unsuccess suggested _he_  
Had been at fault—or so the king inferred,  
For Oeneus could never clearly see,  
I fear, the children that his wife preferred:  
There'd once been flocks of rumors, which he'd heard,  
She'd played the hostess past the customaries  
With one who wasn't even mortal: Ares.

Though women then of certain classes turned  
A few divine affairs—or so report  
The genealogies. His wife had learned  
The fashion from her sister Leda's court,  
But then she overdid things, being the sort  
For sibling rivalry, and so was led  
To also welcome Dionysus to her bed.

Thus Oeneus ignored the godly two  
Althaea doted on—till they insisted:  
Born hero Meleager flexed a thew  
While Deianeira's little finger twisted.  
The latter could be wed before she trysted;  
The former threatened trouble—like a fire  
On wood that's slightly green and pops sparks higher.

The calls for help spread wide their herald wings,  
Flying to those the likeliest to know  
Bright Artemis's favored offerings:  
Tiresias, remanned not long ago;  
Wise Æacus, Aegina's head honcho;  
Cumae's young virgin Sibyl, never kissed;  
As well as others—I'll omit the list.

Replies flew back as signs of coming—late.  
The priests all gathered over nine long days  
From first to last, which was a longer wait  
Than Oeneus expected—Party's ways  
Includes surprises, for she likes to faze.  
Worse: Sibyl was held by some Cumaean strife,  
And Æacus had sent instead a wife.

Aegina's king was needed: Hecate  
(Another name for Her) was honored there,  
And Æacus was widely known to be  
A man who could restock dead towns by prayer;  
His ex-ant myrmidons had fought off with flair  
Invading Minos. All Greece spoke this word,  
But far Aetolia had not yet heard

That only female ants can leave the nest,  
And they transformed to women. Cyrene,  
His leading soldier, armed with spear at rest,  
With seven armed attendant women—she  
Gave Oeneus her king's apology:  
Her co-wife had just borne her first-born son  
And Æacus would not leave either one.

Thus her calm offer of herself as priestess  
Of wild Aphaea, nymph of Artemis,  
And hunter of some skill—which was at least as  
Useful. She was too new to know, on this  
First trip from home, how Oeneus was remiss  
In briefly greeting her to hurry past  
And welcome blind Tiresias, just come—the last.

For his part, Meleager was impressed  
By Cyrene (or rather, by the size  
Of her bow) and decided it was best  
To stay away. It should be no surprise  
His mother liked her: in Althaea's eyes,  
The myrmidons would never catch—ahem!—  
A god, not dressed like that—they weren't femme.

That night, a banquet—with the local wine,  
Supple yet strong. Next morning, Oeneus  
Led wobbly experts to Laphria's shrine  
(The locals supplicated the Huntress thus)  
Where they could hear the boar described, discuss,  
Attempt divining signs of why, and pray.  
They came to no conclusion—not that day.

The process puzzled silent Cyrene—  
Weren't solutions better than a cause?—  
But she, for all her battle bravery,  
Was, here, intimidated. Of human flaws,  
Nothing, not even guilt, will give us pause  
And make our social skills go on hiatus  
As mere uncertainty about our status.

Experience, for all that habits smother,  
Is all that helps us on the social side—  
Hers said that ant nests never help each other.  
But Æacus, her native human guide,  
Had told her this was normal—for it tied  
A net of obligation; when things are grim,  
It's there to catch you—and she trusted him.

She held her own that evening at the board,  
But then at dawn, before the rest awoke,  
She took her party tracking what the boar'd  
Destroyed that night. The spoor vanished like smoke,  
But traces left confusingly evoked  
Titanic size. Her posse in frustration  
Returned in time for more deliberation—

Which, too, was not conclusive. That night's drinkers  
Were deeply desperate, both the old and young—  
And Meleager learned that, like home stinkers,  
These new-met elders had critiquing tongues.  
Glum Cyrene & Co. drank less—though stung  
By failure more—and tracked again at crack  
Of day but, learning nothing new, turned back

And faced—It. As when you cross a crest  
To meet, unsought, a torrent tearing down  
A cliff, the rumble shuddering your chest,  
The spray and grey and green and drowned black stone  
All massed to form a hallow hollow's crown,  
Feeling the spirit of the place's roar—  
Just so their awe on meeting massive boar.

The morning session was nearly done when sud-  
denly—that woman—standing quite dramatic  
With peplos stained by sweat—and mud—and blood—  
Informed them all in tones that sounded vatic,  
"I've seen it." Cyrene was diplomatic,  
But said in no uncertain terms what must  
Be done to regain Artemis's trust:

"The boar's divine—it so astonished us,  
It gored a hunter before we could react—"  
(Just hurt, for Cyrene was valorous:  
Her arrow struck its snout) "—and does, in fact,  
Belong to the Mistress of the Beasts. The pact  
We have with deities must be renewed  
By sacrificing back to her this godly food."

Her firm insistence on the numinous  
Convinced the skittish congress: all agreed  
With her, except for one whose querulous  
"But why did She—?" was trampled by stampede  
Consensus. Cyrene went on, "We'll need  
Some help—it's strong" —which was the start bell's ding  
For Amphiaraus' ride into the ring.

This seer (also hero known for doing)  
Insisted they should ask his former band,  
The Argonauts, who'd proved their strength pursuing  
The Golden Fleece, to lend heroic hands:  
"We could have killed this killer undermanned—  
A sideline in between bit episodes—  
A minor matter in our larger loads."

Young Meleager seconded the call,  
Despite his own annoyance: 'twas absurd,  
How Cyrene had told these elders all  
He had—and yet, with her they had concurred.  
Admittedly, he hadn't used her words  
Nor came to her conclusion (which did sting),  
But snitty, he'd admit to no such thing.

But any backing, even hers, to his  
Proposal was a plus. Perhaps some tact  
Would have been worth the effort, but with this,  
His driving thought was getting Dad to act,  
Advancing every argument and fact—  
Though not including, as he almost said,  
"I told you so." (Tiresias did instead.)

Though not impressed by bluster, Cyrene  
Agreed that they could use an Argonaut  
Or two. That she replied composedly  
Convinced king Oeneus perhaps he ought  
To buy this line—his wild son had, he'd thought,  
Inflated boar accounts—although as well,  
The fact he'd paid for this advice did tell.

So invitation heralds flew again,  
Dispersed upon cross-current motives—though  
Our reasons always are a mess, with men  
And women driven by a mixed-up blow  
Of greed, ambition, leveling, and show  
Of status, making causes all complex—  
Though some would say they all reduce to sex.

The scattered heralds fluttered back once more  
With yeas or nays per time and temperament.  
Each "No" received cheered Oeneus—purse-sore,  
He still had hopes of keeping what he spent  
Down—but the first guest set a precedent:  
His nearby in-law Iphiclus brought others  
With him—to wit, Althaea's other brothers.

These men, too young when Argo first set sail,  
Now cheered their chances to achieve, to do,  
To grasp heroic glory. While the hale  
Plexippus gave both aid and comfort to  
The boar-hurt huntress, Toxeus went to view  
With Cyrene her scene of gallant action  
And traced her handling with satisfaction.

Not that the latter needed appreciation  
The way the former did. Though human-born,  
Philylla'd come to train in her vocation  
As tracker—but she'd blundered, for all she'd sworn  
She'd not. There was, back home, another thorn:  
She'd argued with her boyfriend re: intentions,  
So liked Plexippus's mature attentions.

Because they acted useful, Oeneus  
Could reconcile relations uninvited,  
Even with queen Althaea's doting fuss  
And so-called son disgracefully delighted  
With his heroic kin—so while he slighted,  
He still accepted them. But every day  
More heroes came—each with a protegé.

Some pairs were known—such as the Spartan twins,  
Castor and Polydeuces, both admired—  
But many parties had unheard-of kin:  
Jason and Theseus had each acquired  
A new blood-brother, and they both conspired  
Amid their shipmate's reuniting hails  
To hustle them inside on their cloak-tails.

It got so bad, the seers formed a pool  
For betting on each morning's parvenu:  
The who, with whom, on what excusing rule—  
Though no one guessed at Atalanta's two,  
Raw cousins from Arcadia. Who knew  
This heroine, who seemed so stern and tough,  
Had family obligations? —But enough.

Suffice to say, the guests were many more  
Than Oeneus expected—plus the way  
They all behaved! —their drinking through his store  
Of household wines—competing at risqué  
Refrains throughout the night—he had to pay  
Another flute-girl for each one—and worse,  
Those myrmidons. By Hades! He could curse

The day they came. While Cyrene, he granted,  
Was sober, young Philylla made him curl  
His fingers—no sooner up, and she enchanted  
A score of men inside her flirting whirl.  
That "myrmidon" (so-called) was no good girl—  
And even so, she wasn't quite as bad  
As Kalonike, always hero-clad.

For _she_ 'd had just her co-wife's solace since  
Their husband had been unmanned when nearly killed,  
Fighting the Minos War. His lack (don't wince)  
Left lusty Kalonike less than thrilled,  
So to alleve her feeling unfulfilled  
She took this chance to fling a few affairs—  
Especially in man + woman pairs.

Most often + with Iphiclus, who found  
In her a robust woman equal to  
The drinking/singing/wenching/fighting round  
That is a hero's life—and willing, too,  
Unlike prim Atalanta. It was true,  
Her captain would have made a better catch,  
But Cyrene stayed faithful to her match.

Stayed faithful, yes—but she did not restrain  
Her hearty myrmidons. I must admit,  
This former ant was only partly trained  
In human ways: she saw the benefit  
Of rules that steadied state, but could omit  
All others; if you didn't steal nor fight  
Nor start a war, your morals seemed all right.

And if you think this ethic codifies  
Self-interest (if, at one remove, displaced),  
Consider her a toddler—though this implies  
She lacked a certain poise, when it's so phrased:  
When young Laertes saw Cyrene was placed  
In charge, he blurted out, "How old are _you_ —  
What, nineteen? twenty?" she said calmly, "Two."

But I anticipate things—and misstate,  
For she had taken—not been given—charge  
Of local huntsmen, scouting where of late  
The boar habituated when at large,  
For Meleager never did discharge  
This task. Since ant nests are self-organizing,  
Her taking up the slack is not surprising.

He skipped that chore as hero guests arrived  
Each day, and Meleager couldn't shirk  
His princely role as host. Of course, he thrived  
On their attentions—that was just a perk—  
Like Jason's good advice on warrior work,  
Though it provoked his father to descants  
Of acid on heroic sycophants.

As for the myrmidons, the bold prince kept  
His cold disdain for how they all would flirt  
With (almost) anyone around—except  
That dangerous Cyrene, who'd not desert  
Her ancient husband (why?). Besides, it hurt  
To see another do his other duty,  
And so he hated this effective beauty

Almost as much as Atalanta did.  
For her, it wasn't just the competition  
For token heroine: their spirited  
Behavior tainted her unsure position—  
Though were that all, she'd deal with inhibition  
With mere contempt at groupies hero-hooking,  
But Cyrene was good—and worse, good-looking.

For Atalanta had been raised the son  
Her father never had and hid inside  
A young man's clothing that she wasn't one,  
But here—this woman—no one thought to chide  
Her liberties, even when they saw her stride  
With woman's paces through the woodland oaks  
In girdled peplos and a flowing cloak.

The queen was also bothered by appearance:  
These ant-girls might not catch a god, but they,  
It seemed, lured sons of gods. The men's adherence  
Irked her—but when her bestest brother, say,  
Was stuck to one, had he been pulled astray?  
Not him. And yet—what can a hostess do?  
—Beyond bemoan her daughter's poor debut.

While mother dithered, Deianeira turned  
Sniffy at men. If Kalonike's kiss  
And that Philylla's vamping hadn't burned  
Them up, she'd've reaped a swathe—a trench—abyss—  
Through all these heroes; with that plan a miss,  
She told herself she wanted other crops—  
Like Heracles, not present and the tops.

Officially, the Herc was Laboring  
(The truth: he'd met a pretty Lydian  
Crawling cross-dressing bars—not quite The Thing).  
They missed him. His brother, hero journeyman,  
Gave a short speech, requested by a fan,  
Describing how he helped his twin behead  
The Hydra—pointers heroes liked, which led

To others trading notes about their trade:  
Informal chats at first, but as they grew  
The sessions turned to panel talks that stayed  
On scheduled topics till the end review—  
A change that baffled veterans who knew  
How Jason struggled, leading these paragons.  
But then, they didn't know the myrmidons.

For after all, until they fought the boar,  
Not every myrmidon need hike the hills—  
So Cyrene detached a troop of four  
To organize disseminating skills  
The better heroes knew—and could instill.  
(Besides, she thought it'd help the girls disperse  
The reputation that they were perverse.)

They posted every morning's subject matter  
With where and when to hear "The Best-Made Sword:  
Tapered or Straight?", "Five Foolproof Ways to Flatter  
A Bard," "How Minos was de-Minotaured"—  
All subjects that were usefully explored,  
Though usually the best advice was heard  
Down in the local tavern, afterward.

The myrmidons, past-masters of emergent  
Behavior, shrugged and plunged into the whir  
Of setting-changed exchange; they mixed divergent  
Currents of knowledge, joining in to stir  
The next day's topics with the popular  
Disputes. Attendance at their panels flooded—  
As did the fighting of the hotter blooded.

They also started greeting new arrivals  
To co-opt what they had to add. This worked—  
And caught the eyes of guys—but made them rivals  
Of Meleager, who felt he'd been jerked  
Around. He could accept, for all it irked,  
Their taking over hunters—hosting too?  
Not him—for all his father's temper grew

Impatient: given greeter girls, he should  
Go back to leading trackers. Thankfully,  
His staying had rewards—he got in good  
With Atalanta as both watched with glee  
A moment of strained relations: Cyrene  
Met stepsons Peleus and Telamon  
For the first time. These princes had been gone

Fleece-fetching during Aegina's plague/invasion;  
Because they hadn't helped, these two were rather  
Defensive. Her poise cut through this hard occasion.  
Though Telamon, who lived in endless pother,  
Scorned this gold-digger who had trapped his father,  
After a late night where the wine ran thick,  
His older brother called her "quite the brick."

The king found Telamon quite willing to hear  
His myrmic grumps, if not on the panels—but then,  
A hero likes discussing his career.  
'Twas not so bad by day, when girls, not men,  
Controlled discussion; worse was nighttime when,  
Rehashing over wine, harsh words were spoken—  
Especially when furniture was broken.

Which evening didn't start out quite so rough:  
At first the talk was what change changes render,  
As Cyrene (who liked males well enough),  
Tiresias (who, having been a bender  
Between them two, inclined to either gender),  
And Caeneus (woman turned to man, who hated  
Them both) described their morphing and debated

Which change was for the best—which parented  
Some general thoughts on change, a line of spawns  
Descending to the rub that always led  
To voices ringing through great megarons:  
Whether this "iron" will replace sharp bronze.  
When heads struck this, sparks flew and caught a riot  
That took till dawn before it burnt to quiet.

From which, king Oeneus correctly deduced  
Make active heroes act or they go bad;  
And even Meleager was induced  
By royal temper to agree they had  
Enough new men to hunt next day—as Dad  
Announced that night (the ninth), to cheers from all:  
Both feasting heroes and servants of the hall.

The cheers went on all night. When Dawn caressed  
The morning hills, the myrmidons stood waiting  
With Atalanta by the kennels, pressed  
About by hounds and handlers waiting  
To be unleashed, —and no one else. Waiting  
Two hours turned up Iphiclus, hung-over;  
Till noon, a dozen—but the chance was over.

The myrmidons (except Philylla: weak)  
Disgustedly went chasing after traces  
Of their prey, while heroes, feeling bleak,  
Crept in to work on winning back their faces  
(Big loss: they worked on reputation basis).  
Next morning, Dawn discovered heroes more  
Engaged: awake, alert, and armed for boar.

Delay (while Oeneus looked black) for omens:  
Tiresias claimed ultimate success.  
Then hounds, let loose ahead of spear- and bowmen,  
Nosed to the north (per trackers: not a guess)  
Past boar-torn vineyards, broken terraces,  
To scrub oaks and pale grasses, where—there—tracks,  
Running to where it rests between attacks.

They found it in the hills above the city,  
A giant tusker wounded on its snout  
(Which had become infected—never pretty).  
The shock and awe—its size, its might, its clout—  
Of meeting it made heroes give a shout  
And charge right in, abandoning positions  
To rush it as a crowd of bad tacticians.

I won't delineate the whole affair—  
Others go on at length about the assault  
On Artemis's beast by men who dare,  
The vaunts, the boasts, who missed and who's at fault,  
The proud Ancaeus gored, young Nestor's vault,  
The ones who ran, the injured, and the dead.  
Cyrene saw it all, and shook her head.

Just one blow, Atalanta's arrow, struck—  
Grazing its shoulder (just) to pierce its ear.  
Though myrmidons were organized, their luck  
Was bad and didn't make safe shots appear  
Within the crowd, and so the boar was clear  
To harrow rows of heroes with its tusks  
And turn the finest crop of Greece to husks.

While myrmidons could not attack,  
They could defend, holding a spear-set spine  
Against the boar as the broken band fell back,  
Protecting hurt and routed with their line  
Until they could escape the deadly swine  
Behind the solid city walls—retreating  
To lick their wounds and snarl about the beating.

The royal family, possibly more peeved,  
Withdrew their presence from the grouchy pout  
As Deianeira griped, Althaea grieved,  
And Oeneus just growled aloud about  
Each greedy, bawling, wenching, brawling lout  
And threatened their eviction now—tonight—  
Two toddlers could put up a better fight.

Throughout this, Meleager didn't know  
How to respond when he himself felt sore,  
But hearing husband rate her brothers so  
Provoked Althaea to defend them more  
Than her shocked son could—and so they tore  
A dust-up that blew into a general storm.  
But then, a family is a retiform—

That is, a net that's knotted from a spread  
Of crossed relationships that, when combined,  
Are stronger than a friendship's single thread—  
Though ties that hold are also ties that bind;  
Pluck _this_ string, _that_ one resonates in kind,  
For good or ill—as Meleager learned  
When years of marital frustrations burned.

His raging parents' pent-up accusations  
Drove Meleager to the hall, where he  
Ran into something even worse: dictations  
On how tomorrow's well-run hunt would be  
Conducted, from the most heroically  
Experienced. He seethed, but had the wit  
To know he had no choice but to submit.

Though he negotiated one small change:  
For he, though this cabal was Jason-led,  
Believed that Cyrene had here arranged  
This new humiliation—so instead  
Of in the center, myrmidons were spread  
Out in the wings with those who'd drive the quarry  
Towards men who'd kill it, getting greater glory.

And then he got away again. This was,  
As far as Meleager was concerned,  
The worst day of his life, not least because  
His uncles helped to kindle the coup—which burned.  
He finally found the comfort that he'd earned  
Quite late, in blind Tiresias's arms.  
('Twas nice to hear that he indeed had charms.)

Dawn dawned. The heroes knew this day would be  
Their time to do or fail. The soldier sense  
That there is nothing of divinity  
In what they sought to slaughter, a pretense  
Of just a target, was their best defense  
In this attack—and so, before they started,  
Together they drilled at living harden-hearted.

This exercise gave trackers time to trail  
The scattered drops of blood—still hard for pros—  
From the boar's bleeding ear. In a damp swale,  
They found, surrounded, baited it with blows  
Upon its tender still-infected nose,  
Until they drove it in their killing zone:  
A grove of grounded spears, butts closely sown.

With giant beady eyes, it gauged this mere  
Death-trap, then charged what seemed the weakest place  
And deeply gouged itself upon the spear  
That Meleager held—and tusk to face,  
The prince held on. It staggered. In that space,  
The wounds then came so fast, they couldn't know  
Who in the end delivered the killing blow.

"Couldn't," and not just "didn't," was not surprising  
Given their spears had met the numinous,  
Which mazes minds—like a hushed fog rising  
Shuts senses—leaving just the tremulous  
Experience. While goddess animus  
Was prep'd for offering, the band refracted  
Upon the start, not end, of how they acted,

Thus: Meleager got credit for the kill.  
Yes! —but in thanks for being named their peer,  
Magnanimous praise was needed for good will,  
So he gave co-credit to Atalanta here,  
Claiming of all the wounds, the bleeding ear  
That led them to it was the useful one.  
And thus an uglier battle was begun.

His uncle Toxeus made the first objection:  
"But surely the infected snout did more  
For our success!" —a startled interjection  
That prompted others to promote a score  
Of later deeds. They'd have just sniped and swore  
If only heroes had expressed protests,  
But nephew/uncles? —that's a family mess,

And internecine makes things worse by far.  
Finally forced to choose, Althaea chose  
Berating brothers for their non-avuncular  
Attacks—a poking in of outside nose  
That polarized the heroes from their rows  
Of separate claims, to line up to defend  
One helper, either from the start or end.

The prince, shocked by his uncles' opposition—  
'Twas almost like they feuded to profane  
His joy in his heroic recognition—  
Suffered from this fresh injury more pain  
Than even Oeneus's old disdain,  
Which was familiar—if increasing now.  
Resentment smoldered—choked—he'd show them how.

For Atalanta and Meleager both,  
Each vote for her was taken now as personal  
Approval, justifying an overgrowth  
Of fine disdain for myrmidonic gall.  
Their attitude was so ungenial  
That Theseus reversed his inclination  
Solely to see them squawk in indignation.

Indeed, as usual for politics,  
Support for either heroine derived  
Not just from merits, but a motive mix  
Of biases and where self-interest thrived:  
That Cyrene herself had not connived  
(She knew her worth) at honor made a few  
Decide she's unheroic—snooty, too.

Before the sacrificial carcass burned  
Upon the altar, all of them had sided  
Without consensus. His troubles, the king learned,  
Hadn't expired with the boar, but bided:  
Of all the family, he was undecided  
Because he spent an equal effort snarling  
At myrmidon and Meleager's darling.

That all his family had turned partisan  
Made him more prickly: How could they endorse  
This check upon his will as king and man?  
What strength drawn from these myrmic bitches forced  
This challenge? Rational, no—though of course  
We blame the trigger when events go wrong,  
And not the flaws exposed, there all along.

But neither did he like the hunting tart,  
Ally of trumped-up son—and overwrought.  
The king's ambivalence of hating heart  
Gave Amphiaraus an analogic thought  
For how to break the stasis that had them caught,  
Viz, ask for judgment from a man who was  
Equally (im)partial: Tiresias.

The seer's biases were opposite  
The king's: on hunting days he'd comforted  
Philylla in her bed, while nights he'd flit  
Between whichever heroes could be led  
To sleep with someone old but spirited—  
This easy switcher claimed that he was gay,  
But as a man or woman, wouldn't say.

Because he'd bedded many (if not the leads)  
From either side, supporters could adduce  
A preference for their claim, and so agreed.  
He tried to buck them off on some excuse,  
But still was harnessed judge and not let loose—  
Indeed, his bridle had a social bit:  
Consensus forced the king to live by it.

Not happily, of course—that first suggestion  
Of Amphiaraus hadn't been too hot,  
And whether 'twas worthwhile was still in question—  
But somehow helpful myrmidons had got  
Alloyed agreement tempered from this lot,  
So king and seer joined. The latter grumped:  
He hadn't seen this coming till it'd jumped.

He used the wiliness that is the guide  
Of senior seers, and made a quick decision,  
Awarding Atalanta the boar's hide  
And Cyrene both ears and tail—a scission  
Admired just as much for its concision  
As ambiguity: you will, I trust,  
Believe that everyone was left nonplussed.

A "left" that's literal: Tiresias  
Decamped for home, even while boar smoke rose  
To gratify the goddess. 'Tis a guess  
That deities are where what's offered goes,  
But while it's true that no one ever _knows_  
A god's been mollified, no further beasts  
Appeared—and that was good enough for feasts.

The trophied heroines both hurriedly  
Followed the seer off—the one to hand  
Her father proof she's worthy, Cyrene  
To ask her king why things went worse than planned,  
How she and the myrmidons in her command  
Could have avoided the botch they'd catalyzed.  
He'd know the way, or she would be surprised.

The heroes all concurred, and got away  
To salve, somehow, their new employment woes,  
For civil wars are not quite worth the pay—  
Not when the royal family raged as foes,  
Even the quiet queen: When threats arose,  
She promised her brothers that if they pursue  
Her son, well, she could play with fire too.

At least the family fighting was, at first,  
Confined within the palace walls (thank Fate!),  
Which let the countryside repair the worst  
Unhindered. Left alone and drinking late,  
King Oeneus stayed up to calculate  
Whether having divine displeasure cease  
Was worth the price of his domestic peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First appeared in _Eye to the Telescope_ , issue 1 (2011) edited by Deborah P Kolodji and Samantha Henderson.


	3. Atalanta's Races

The birth went badly. First the mother died,  
Bleeding till she was gone, as if exchanged  
For his new life. But then the baby cried  
In fits and starts till he too stopped, short-changed,  
Leaving father and other wife deranged—  
Too deeply grieved to even think about  
Replacing the spouse they lost. They'd do without.

But while Aegina's laws allowed a time  
For mourning, customs bore up their decree:  
Two wives per husband. This odd paradigm  
Arose when Zeus restored a plagued society  
By changing ants to women at a plea—  
A shift with large effects, as you can guess,  
And their domestic triple life attests.

These myrmidons retained some antish ways,  
Including nest conformity: they picked  
Their guidelines for their lives without delays,  
Then worked them hard—until two contradict.  
This meant some customs were, perhaps, too strict:  
Within a month, the couple had been warned,  
"Remarry now—enough grief—you have mourned."

While Thoas first responded with a rant,  
Areta knew they needn't, yet, give way—  
She was herself a former soldier ant  
And he, a human hunter after prey:  
The only one the couple _must_ obey  
Was she who led the weapon-wielding pack,  
And Cyrene'd said nothing re: their lack;

And so Areta stopped him, hand on arm,  
And with a "Thanks for your advice," escorted  
The quidnunc out before she did more harm—  
And then with her emotions all aborted  
('Twas that or scream at being so extorted)  
She held her Thoas tightly as he cried,  
While unborn tears still left her empty eyed.

Because Areta was a myrmidon,  
She knew this push would only be the first  
And soon, too soon, the pressure would be on—  
And be successful. "Hades!" Thoas cursed.  
"Too bad we can't," Areta said, lips pursed,  
"Like Atalanta, use a contest to defer  
Our marriage." Then she blinked. "Or—let's use hers."

For word had flown across all Greece of how,  
After his daughter's deeds in Calydon  
Disposing of their Boar, king Iasus now  
Would wed her to the fleet-foot paragon  
Who beat her in a racing monathlon.  
Chancing it would prolong their widowhood;  
And, hunters of the chase, their chance was good—

As Cyrene confirmed from memories  
Of Calydon, where she'd participated.  
Their boss regretted, though, hostilities  
With Atalanta when the crew debated  
Who'd struck the Boar's first blow—this leader hated,  
As former member of the ant collective,  
Social disruption: it was ineffective.

And so she gave her soldier a peace mission  
With words conciliating, so she prayed,  
A heroine provoked by competition.  
Areta learned them, though her attention frayed:  
Even if restive Thoas could have stayed,  
She found she couldn't face the pain of suasion—  
And so they left next day on their evasion.

The details of their trek were nothing new—  
Rough roads, high passes, sailing stormy seas—  
Though they, as first-time travelers, worked through  
The normal wondrous road discoveries  
Like foreign seasonings and guest-room fleas.  
While Thoas grumped, Areta was phlegmatic—  
She'd no emotions left to be emphatic.

When finally they reached their destination,  
Tegea in Arcadia's hinterland,  
The two were sore, weary of their frustration,  
And draggled to the point they felt unmanned—  
And so, ignoring courtesy's demand  
They straightway see the king, they veered their path  
To find a public house that had a bath.

As normal for this sort of gather place,  
They picked up juicy tidbits of the day—  
For who can keep from gossip, face to face?  
Here, every conversation seemed to stray  
To Atalanta's little passion play—  
And thus they learned not winning had a cost:  
The loser's life, as well as honor, lost.

Which detail, distance had erased when word  
Of competition fluttered to their ears.  
When the exhausted couple overheard  
This codicil, numb Thoas glanced: _Stay here?_   
Areta shrugged: _Agreed_. Whatever fears  
They had concerned—not death—continued living:  
Survival's debt can sometimes need forgiving.

Thus freshened up, they found the citadel  
And learned they were the second suitors to arrive  
That day. And so they listened for a spell  
As some man proudly claimed, "I'm here to wive  
Your daughter—she won't escape me when I strive.  
I'm ruler of Onchestus and Poseidon's scion,  
Erginus—here with my cousin Melanion."

This hero thought he had his quarry's measure  
From when the two of them were Argonauts—   
In any race, for funeral games or pleasure,  
He'd always beat this heroine; she thought  
She'd run from marriage? from him? She'd be caught.  
And here she stood, pretending she's nonplussed.  
(In truth, she had to swallow her disgust.)

Her father, though, was highly gratified:  
Their greatest suitor yet—a fellow king!  
Tegea's rep would spread Achaea-wide.  
King Iasus couldn't, now, regret this sting  
His daughter had insisted that they spring,  
And for the first time since the brat was born  
He felt for Atalanta more than scorn.

The king had tried—by Zeus, how hard he'd tried!—  
To raise her as the son he couldn't get,  
But training couldn't cut what gender tied.  
Ignored, she'd fought attention's deficit  
With hunting and heroic deeds—and yet,  
For all the trophies she'd brought back to him,  
He wished she could pass on his patronym.

And then her latest feat—this uncured hide  
Of her titanic boar, now on display  
Within a shrine down by the marketside.  
That _Argo_ had been fine and far away;  
This, from a nearby kingdom that today  
Was civil warring, made him understand:  
'Twas time to heel her at a husband's hand.

When he'd commanded it, her weak reaction  
Confirmed his resolution—and though loath,  
She did obey, but with her own redaction:  
For she had once, she told him, sworn an oath  
To Artemis that she would not betroth  
A weaker man—only a racing test  
Could prove that she was marrying the best.

This edit and her boar-hide exhibition  
Showed pride, but still she lacked some, he could see—  
For anyone who raced with no condition  
On who competed acted mortally,  
So Iasus added a royal penalty:  
So only heroes, divinely brave, applied,  
Whoever lost to Atalanta died.

She'd realized at the time, if she opposed  
His consequence, he'd never let it rest  
But hound her like prey, wounded and exposed,  
For keeping squeamish feminine unsuppressed—  
So she, though slightly troubled, acquiesced.  
She lost her qualms, however, when she saw  
What types of suitors were immune to awe:

All either cocky hero-wannabes  
Or erstwhile colleagues she knew all too well,  
Whose past behavior towards her didn't please—  
And either way, they knew what stories tell:  
A hero's job is risky; many fell.  
Between the punks and jerks, what's there to choose?  
Only ensuring that she never lose.

Thus Atalanta, by her father's throne,  
Was not impressed by this Erginus' tack  
Of calling her presumptively his own:  
As token heroine, she had held back  
A little of herself when on the track—  
To be accepted like a fellow man,  
She'd had to be the best, not better than.

King Iasus asked Erginus if he knew  
The consequence of losing to his child.  
"Not that it will matter, but I do."  
His cousin led his men in royal-styled  
Salutes—Erginus basked, while Iasus smiled:  
Surely at last his girl'd be circumsexed.  
"And may your skill prevail tomorrow. Next!"

The other two stepped up to greet the king,  
Who saw a man who had as bodyguard  
One woman warrior—O glorious thing!  
A prince of Amazons! The king's eyes starred.  
But his plain greeting scattered this canard:  
"We're here to try your daughter's hand. My name  
Is Thoas of Aegina." Oh. How tame.

"And I'm Areta," said the woman dressed  
In women's clothes yet unselfconsciously  
Carrying spear and quiver and the rest.  
"We bring," she added understatedly,  
"A message from our king's wife, Cyrene."  
What—?! Atalanta froze in fight-or-flight:  
She hated/feared all myrmidons on sight.

No one replied. Areta wearily  
Recalled what Cyrene and she'd discussed:  
"She hopes your awkward meeting will not be  
Your only one—that your acquaintance must,  
She's sure, fledge forth in friendship's trust."  
There'd been some more, but surely what was missed  
Was not as crucial as this gist.

Her words turned Atalanta's freeze to rage:  
In Calydon's great hunt, this Cyrene'd  
Poached partial killing credit to upstage  
A rival's fame; now clearly she'd decreed  
She wished her lackey's venture to succeed—  
Thus "must." _The bitch_ , she thought, _is taking pains_  
_To drag me to her realm in marriage chains_.

Still, Cyrene had underestimated  
Her rival—though, of course, this man would be  
Her very best. Thus wrapped in what she hated,  
The princess missed her father grudgingly  
Receive this suitor—for "unhappily"  
His daughter's schedule meant two day's delay,  
Viz: Atalanta raced just once a day.

The couple bowed, accepting his decree—  
Areta calm, not knowing aught's amiss,  
But Thoas rattled: he could clearly see  
They were outclassed (his rank! his men! his bliss!)  
But dared not show dismay at all of this.  
Asserting dinner would no doubt delight,  
The king dismissed the two until tonight.

A woman led them to their rooms, and stayed,  
Assigned to comforting the couple's ease.  
While Thoas noted just a serving maid—  
For expectation shadows what one sees—  
Areta, even in foreign colonies,  
Saw every member (under queen) the same,  
And soon she learned their friendly servant's name.

Indeed, this Phoebe chatted easily—  
Areta hadn't learned to not converse  
With maids as peers, and as for Phoebe, she  
Sought to appear she's wasn't at all adverse  
To them—to spy, or sabotage, or worse,  
Anything for the princess she admired—  
The one she sometimes, late at night, desired.

So this supposed country girl spun tales:  
How she'd been sent to work inside the palace  
To earn a dowry, of her Mum's travails  
Finding a husband, that town folk were callous  
"Not friendly-like, you know—it's almost malice"——  
This through their dinner preparation throes—  
A hard task, given travel-draggled clothes.

Dinner was good, although a local bard  
Sang for the court a song, no longer terse,  
Listing erstwhile suitors who'd failed so hard,  
In order, with wrenched meter and rhymes perverse,  
That had as chorus after every verse,  
"He came in last, and so he lost his head.  
Drink to the lady, lads—the loser's dead."

The king applauded hard, and with a grin  
He asked his guests if now they were convinced   
They sought to catch a real-life heroine.  
Erginus nodded, well-trained as a prince,  
While Melanion had to hide a wince;  
Thoas stayed silent, even more impressed;  
Areta was too numb to be distressed.

Although the widowed couple quit the fête  
Soon after, claiming travel had its toll,  
Erginus and his cousin stayed up late  
Plying the wine-skin and the mixing bowl,  
Abetted by a cunning host whose goal,  
Prestige, increased with every slaughter—  
And after all, his child was just a daughter.

Next morning, after Dawn had come and gone  
And the town's racecourse had been cleared of sheep,  
The princess met Erginus, wan and drawn,  
Inside the local goddess' shrine to keep  
Their word: a stainless ewe's white throat bled deep  
While they renounced all vengeance under oath,  
With bright Alea witness to them both.

When that was finished, to the track to run.  
Erginus, warming up, undressed completely—  
Greek men competed nude beneath the sun—  
As did the manly Atalanta, neatly.  
Seeing a woman naked indiscreetly  
Made her opponent's pre-race focus shatter—  
And everybody else's, for that matter.

For her display made many men postactive:  
Although she dressed and acted like a man  
This heroine was really quite attractive—  
Not only fair of face as all her clan,  
But body trim, athletic, toned, and tan—  
No Spartan Leda with a skin that glows,  
But certainly a babe in hero's clothes.

Combine this with the nude's forbidden lure,  
It shouldn't be surprising on this course  
So many men would lose their heads to her,  
Especially with how powerful and coarse  
A lust is in its elemental force—  
And sex is, nowadays, the sole citation,  
It seems, for everybody's motivation.

But likewise, sex itself is complicated—  
Oblique, effusive, energetic, sly,  
Sincere, connecting, closed, reticulated—;  
So while we've tidied the equation by  
Reducing terms to one, this tricks the eye  
With how it's written—and it wouldn't do  
To not look past appearance to what's true.

The truth here is, Erginus was so distracted  
By bare oiled skin, he didn't notice how  
The rising land and large turn-post refracted  
The fact the track was twice the length that now  
Was standard—from the grand Olympic show  
That Heracles had recently commenced—  
Which he (as everybody) trained against.

So when the signal for the start was given  
He bolted—enough ahead he could forget  
That someone came behind, so swift he'd striven.  
But Atalanta wasn't pushing, yet—  
She paced herself, knowing the distance threat,  
This huntress used to chasing wounded prey.  
Her winded suitor wouldn't get away.

As she loped past the stands, the captive audience  
Admired her—including Thoas, though he,  
Now used to life with those whose antish sense  
Meant only slowly learning modesty,  
Was not as struck by flaunted nudity  
As by her body in itself—so too  
Areta, savoring the supple view.

But then she caught herself: how could she, here,  
Have thoughts unfaithful to the memory  
Of her dead wife, one formerly so dear?  
Weaving her guilt around her, she didn't see  
Returning to the line how easily  
The dusty, panting man was passed, outdone  
By Atalanta gleaming in the sun.

The loser crumpled at the finish line,  
Unmanned. As the impassive victor dressed,  
The lost was led away to pay his fine,  
Accepting what was due, although distressed—  
He wouldn't throw the name that he possessed:  
While losing flipped his honor's coin reverse,  
Running and breaking oath would fall far worse.

That night, the bard repeated once again  
His song, with stanza added to the ending.  
Both this and other talk among the men  
Intimidated Thoas. Their host's extending  
The cup of welcome helped him with pretending  
He rated as the hero they presumed—  
As did the skin of wine that he consumed.

However, Melanion was provoked,  
Hearing his cousin's name defamed aloud,  
A king and kinsman's honor killed— He choked.  
Go home without him? He'd be disavowed.  
Besides—he glanced at Atalanta, wowed—  
To not desire her, you must be neuter.  
So he addressed her father as a suitor.

The object of his suit did not object,  
For Atalanta concentrated on  
Showing her next opponent disrespect;  
While not afraid of any myrmidon,  
The effort of ignoring left her drawn—  
Not that Areta noticed this cold shoulder  
Through self-recrimination's caustic smolder.

When Phoebe helped her pair undress for bed  
She tried to hint she was an easy lay,  
But even tipsy, Thoas knew instead  
To let her pass on by him for today  
And hold his wife—who resolutely looked away  
From this fresh face that gave her such unease,  
Kept faithful by her grieving memories.

Next morning, after Dawn let loose the sun,  
For Thoas and Areta the decision  
Of who's the racer was an easy one:  
Aside from Thoas' lingering collision  
With last night's wine, a sprinter'd met his scission  
On this long track—Areta was, they knew,  
The better distance runner of the two.

As Thoas coached her at the starting line,  
To Atalanta, stretching, it was clear  
Which one of them would run—and that was fine,  
Given she'd half-convinced herself that, here,  
The myrmidon's the one she didn't fear;  
So when Areta stripped (as racers do)  
She fought to focus on the race, not who.

But in the stands, they didn't read a-right  
The line-up till the starting signal fell  
And Atalanta sprung into leading sight  
Before another naked woman. —Well!  
The watchers gasped, then hollered—this was swell!—  
While Thoas swallowed, suddenly aware  
He might lose one more love in this affair.

Areta trotted, not quite into it—  
But seeing someone out in front perform,  
Her habit's bit soon spurred her to commit—  
She cantered after, quickly getting warm.  
The deadly swiftness of that woman's form  
Reminded her of death (as everything),  
And of her dead wife, of grief's deathless sting.

Mindlessly pumping legs and lungs and feet,  
Her disengaged attention could pretend  
That if she caught this woman, deathly fleet,  
She would be overtaking death's own friend—  
The death that tore her darling to her end.  
Areta kicked out faster, worry-spurned,  
Till at the post, she sprinted as she turned.

When Atalanta, off-balance, unclear,  
By being chased instead of chasing, heard  
Areta's wingéd footsteps hurrying near,  
She too sped up to stay ahead, shame-spurred—  
Her hurried heart, as her thinking blurred,  
Equated being beaten into wife  
With death of honor—almost loss of life.

Responding to each other, each ran faster  
Though this was pushing far too soon, too near  
The turning post, but no one was the master—  
With neither closing up nor pulling clear,  
Which made a spectacle for all to cheer:  
A race of a lifetime—scream with all your breath!—  
Though one was chasing, one escaping, death.

We like to think that in a healthy soul  
Hope's faith is stronger than a fear's despair:  
The latter gnaws, the former feeds, the whole.  
Perhaps. This may be why that, for this pair,  
It strikes our storied sense as ending fair  
To learn that Atalanta lost wind first—  
Areta passed her with a final burst.

First Thoas caught her like a life reclaimed,  
Although, of course, he couldn't hold her tight—  
She had to walk off cramps or else be lamed.  
But then king Iasus, certain he was right,  
Descended to berate if not indict  
"This cheat, this awful and unlawful thing."  
(The unforeseen's illegal, to a king.)

The arguments and counterclaims took time,  
But once Aegina's laws had been explained  
It seemed Areta's racing was no crime.  
This panicked Atalanta, and she strained  
To find a— Ah! With righteousness unfeigned,  
She told Thoas, "If I'm to marry you  
As well as her, you'll have to beat me too!"

While Thoas felt this bait-and-switch's pinch,  
Areta thought the ruling fair enough—  
Plus they were too committed now to flinch.  
Irked Iasus caught his daughter's firm rebuff  
Quite gleefully, remarking in a chuff  
That—ha!—tomorrow Thoas wouldn't race—  
This Melanion fellow had that place.

Trapped by consensus and his past intent,  
Thoas perforce agreed to everything,  
Then took away his darling, stained and spent,  
For bathhouse care: a thorough scouring  
And then, to treat her muscles' stiffening,  
A long massage with bathing oils and such ...  
And slowly she relaxed beneath his touch.

She tried to seal away her bottled fears;  
In his supporting arms, gentle and strong,  
They suddenly gave birth to wringing tears.  
He joined her, purging tension strung along.  
Once calm, the two with growing sense of wrong  
Were stung to feel they didn't want to die—  
Afraid he'd likely do so with his try.

Not that opinions were unanimous  
Upon the subject, judging by the betting  
That flowed around them in the bathhouse fuss—  
Pumping for both the girl of local getting  
("She's more tricks up her tunic, you're forgetting")  
And her opponents, now that she had lost  
("Her confidence was rocked—that's gotta cost").

The bard more strongly felt this conflict's bite:  
What should he sing? More—what was politic?  
Yes, Atalanta'd lost, yet hadn't, quite.  
Uncertain who to vaunt, he turned to schtick,  
That oldest courtier's and poet's trick,  
And for his final chorus, sang instead:  
"Drink to the ladies, lads—they may soon wed."

For often anger, envy's sting, fear's choke,  
The sullens, even hatred from the gut  
Can be deflected when they're turned to joke,  
Especially laced with sex or other smut—  
At least when those it's told to aren't the butt;  
His listeners thought his titillation splendid—  
But nettled, Atalanta was offended,

Too sore to laugh at being so mismated.  
The ones who'd bet against her confidence  
Were not far wrong. She had despised and hated  
Fame-stealing myrmidons in self-defense  
Since she'd first seen them. Anger just made sense—  
For as she'd feared, her life had come undone.  
And now she had to race another one.

She'd tried—by Artemis, how hard she'd tried!—  
To run with all her father's expectations  
By keeping manly manners, dress, and pride.  
Enduring heroism's tribulations  
Was worse than even family frustrations,  
Yet scorn of men beneath her (all of them)  
Had tripped on his now treating her as femme.

And here she had a problem even she  
Could not outrun—but she should disregard  
Their presence. On other couches, she could see,  
This Melanion and her father sparred.  
Resisting Father, as she knew, was hard—  
She couldn't fault the man for raising up  
For one more toast a heady, wine-filled cup.

There'd be worse fates, she thought, than lose to him—  
He'd never snubbed her, boasted, condescended,  
Nor claimed that this was just a phase, a whim;  
No hero, yet, but his royal kin portended  
A chance mortality could be transcended;  
Good looking, too, if you were not averse.  
She glanced at the Aeginetans. Far worse.

The couple she disdained soon left to take  
Their solitude in comforts of the bed—  
Which they desired with a living ache,  
Both for the consolation of their dread  
And lust for life that flooded heart and head.  
They found their bed, but privacy was harder—  
For servants, as they learned, can frustrate ardor.

For Phoebe had a mission of her own—  
'Twas time to undermine their confidence.  
The man was randy, phallus fully grown,  
And he would race the princess; common sense  
Said help the one she served (adored)—and hence,  
To spike their marriage in between her thighs,  
She offered herself as his preemptive prize.

The couple, when her sly reward was stood,  
By glancing each to each the two agreed  
To their first threesome of their widowhood—  
The bond of joint complicity here freed  
Them both to feed their former habit's need:  
Their tide embraced her in a giddy act  
Of living after death has dulled to fact.

While Phoebe, startled, was no ingenue  
At adding couples— _that_ she understood—  
The sum of boy + girl was all she knew;  
She'd never followed through (and never would)  
On her heroine worship (no one could!);  
And so she soon received an education  
In new, more complex forms of conjugation.

She threw her whole heart into raising blood,  
Appearing to enjoy compound addition—  
Not that it was hard in this full flood.  
Indeed, when taking on a new position,  
She had to remind herself of her true mission:  
A single man and maid was well enough—  
Compared to tripling, that wasn't up to snuff.

Atalanta, though, found her role still galled:   
After the feast, she couldn't face frustration  
Confined within her room, and roamed the halls,  
Searching for ways to solve her situation  
That didn't mean her total degradation.  
A pity honor wouldn't let her throw  
The race to him—or could she, maybe? —No.

She stopped and stared, and saw the room  
The myrmidons had been assigned—she'd strayed.  
Revulsion sparked, ignited in a plume  
Of flaming ire—by her own feet betrayed!  
And then, disheveled, their informing maid  
Slipped out their door, no doubt sent on some late,  
Self-serving errand. Well, _their_ task could wait.

She gave the snitch a message, just a line,  
For Melanion— (outside, yes, but where?  
She chose the obvious) "There is a shrine  
Of Aphrodite on the market square,  
Where hangs the hide from Calydon—go there,  
And wait for one who'll speak to you." The maid  
Repeated it exactly, then obeyed.

Phoebe rushed off, before she had reported—  
But orders first. Though it was puzzling:  
What could the princess need from _him_? She snorted.  
Hadn't she proven she'd do anything  
To catch her lady's eye? her everything  
For She who'd taught her "husband" means "a trap"?  
To seek another's aid would be a slap.

Phoebe slowed to ponder in quiet night,  
For she was still postcoital pensive, thinking  
Of what she'd learned—not just about delight:  
She'd seen now marriage could tie closeness, linking  
Two lives, when knotted smoothly without kinking.  
Thus mazed in wonder— _wife_ not meaning _thrall_!—  
She stumbled on _him_ stumbling from the hall.

For Melanion had drunk some—not deep:  
He'd watched his cousin. Still, the wine's effects  
Made him conclude (with not so great a leap)  
That when a woman pays you her respects  
Disheveled, sweaty, smelling of sweet sex,  
Then sends you to bright Aphrodite's shrine,  
She is, if not that goddess, still divine.

So he obeyed Her summons, and once there,  
He met Herself, disguised—so said his intuition—  
As Atalanta. He stuttered a prayer.  
The heroine soon learned with repetition  
He was, for all he tried, in no condition  
For subtle conversation—not right now.  
Words failed her. This was up to her. But how?

She looked around, her courage almost done.  
Her glance caught glintings, offerings she'd missed:  
Three conches, sacred to the Seaborn One,  
About the size of baby Eros' fist  
And golden where the torchlight flickers kissed.  
She tried to nip a niggling sensation—  
Then caught her breath in sudden inspiration.

With silent thanks for answers sent unbid,  
She gave instructions to her devotee.  
He blinked when told to take the shells, but did:  
Her order couldn't be impiety;  
Her next commands confused him—who should flee?—  
Although her last ("For Dionysus' sake,  
Drink water before you sleep!") he'd not mistake.

Tottering on to bed, he soundly slept—  
Unlike Areta, who nearly went without.  
It'd seemed a good idea to accept  
Phoebe's temptation, ending their harsh drought—  
And it felt good—but afterwards came doubt,  
For grief's a sere that simplifies the soul;  
There's room for complications when we're whole.

So with too many possibilities  
Now sprouting from emotion's boggy sink,  
The choice of what to do now made her freeze  
Until she finally forced herself to think;  
When Dawn first teased the eastern hills with pink  
Her Thoas found himself swept out to train  
And made to run the track again and again.

Some shepherds stopping by to criticize  
Soon found that she had drafted them as well  
(She'd still the antish will to organize,  
And local goodwill thought this victor swell)  
To time course segments: when he passed, they'd yell.  
But even with assistance keeping pace  
Thoas would spurt too soon and blow the race.

When done, they didn't talk about this botch,  
The patience that his body couldn't learn,  
And, silent, settled in the stands to watch   
Their prior rival come to take his turn—  
Too wrapped up in the wool of their concern  
To notice, as he warmed up on the sand,  
Either his form—or what he had in hand.

Indeed, their focus—understandably,  
Given the locus of their clear desire—  
Was solely and obsessively on She:  
The pensive Atalanta, stretching prior  
To her running—again, without attire;  
How easily she won would shed some light  
On Thoas' chances—whether none or slight.

Used to pretence, the heroine appeared  
At ease. But was her project fully manned?  
She couldn't glance at him—she always sneered—  
To check if he remembered her command.  
They lined up, waiting. Would he do as planned?  
And if he didn't ... "Go!" If she must choose,  
Could she throw it? —would honor win or lose?

But this time Atalanta didn't lose  
Herself in worries: she made sure he got  
Ahead, although he kept his pace at cruise—  
His cousin failed by being too hot to trot.  
Once round the turning post, she pushed a jot,  
And he responded, trying to keep just past her.  
She chased still harder, forcing him still faster.

But even so, he lacked her loping stride.  
Just as she'd nearly reached his swinging hand,  
About to pass, he gestured to the side  
And tossed a tawny orb upon the sand.  
The audience that saw this from the stands  
Gasped as she stumbled, swerved aside pell-mell,  
Then cheered when she retrieved the sacred shell—

But whether in approval of his ruse  
Or of her chasing after the profaner,  
Could not have said, if asked, or been confused—   
Their neighbors cheered, and so did they: what's plainer?  
A second throw, this further from the gainer,  
And once again she broke stride to get it,  
Again they whooped and walloped backs and sweated.

Then Atalanta chased again, as he  
Approached the end. Three moments, she'd be past—  
He clearly was winded—she had energy—  
Yet just before she could, another cast.  
Caught in the thrill of body sprinting fast,  
Tempted by victory (which feels so fine),  
She hesitated. He got past the line.

Before they'd caught their wind they caught a fit—  
The one that Iasus threw. Another cheater!  
This time, he wouldn't get away with it—  
He swore by Zeus to prosecute the bleater.  
But Melanion, undaunted by this fire-eater,  
Stood firm beside her—stopping the king mid-rant  
With his direct refusal to recant.

He used his winning tongue to soon excuse  
His conduct: that last night the Goddess came  
As he held vigil—how could he refuse?—  
The gods had willed it—losing was no shame.  
King Iasus, balked here, gave this lordly claim  
The hairy stare. What made him more irate:  
His daughter snarled, protecting her new mate.

She shared but little with him past what was planned  
Last night, and that'd been self-defeating;  
Now father's huffing didn't damp, but fanned  
Their sparked alliance, held against retreating—  
One fueled for Melanion by their meeting:  
For while he knew no goddess held that session  
His mortal clay retained that first impression.

Her father yielded when she pointed out  
She might be an Aeginetan right now.  
By that night's banquet, though, she'd chilling doubts—   
Congratulations reeked of marriage vows   
And cold possession. Thus the bard's last bow,  
"Drink to the lad, you ladies—he's got lass,"  
Provoked a bolt, revolted by his sass.

Melanion stared after her, befuddled.  
Areta, finally prompted to renew her  
Peace mission for Cyrene, which grief had muddled,  
Told him the reason why he must pursue her:  
He'd won her hand, yes—now he had to woo her.  
All myrmidons, if asked this, would have said  
You meld as partners _after_ you are wed.

But here, I've bent my story's time past supple  
And tangled up my tale, which must confuse—  
Back to that afternoon, and other couple.  
While Thoas was simply glad he wouldn't lose,  
Areta still remembered their to-dos:  
In her efficient myrmidonic way  
She rebegan their search for wife that day.

But how? Her bathhouse questions learned ... not much:  
The older gossips clucked and made the claim  
That she was quite above their class's touch,  
Which made no sense—she'd won; so what? What's fame?  
The ones who labored hardest for their nest became  
True nobles—so she thought; men's "honor" blurred it.  
But she could spot refusal when she heard it.

She then asked several soldiers of the king  
For sisters who could marry in a hurry—  
Or daughters. All said No. Quite puzzling.  
After the banquet, in their packing flurry,  
Areta's pensive state made Thoas worry:  
Inactive myrmidons become depressed.  
It even seemed to make their maid distressed.

Phoebe, though, simmered in her own ferment:  
In sending her to fetch her chosen mate,  
Her mistress _used_ her as the instrument  
Of her betrayal. She had learned too late  
Royal principles were subject to debate.  
Seeing the princess would more than just distress her  
As hurt and anger heated crushing pressure.

She roiled while soon, too soon, she helped them leave  
Until she burst out with her own request:  
"I've served you well—I hope so—I believe—  
She'll take revenge—the princess—though you're guests—  
Please take me with you. Please, I'll be the best—"  
After a moment, she went on, voice hushed,  
"I'll be a darned good servant, and—" she blushed.

The couple (with a smile, a nod) agreed  
To offer a more permanent position  
Which would—by Aphrodite!—fill all needs;  
Phoebe said yes, completing their hard mission.  
They left Tegea with their acquisition  
At dawn—and while their sorrow didn't cease,  
She gave them joy as well as legal peace.


	4. Seven Myrmidons Against Thebes (Unfinished)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messy initial draft is messy.

#### Part I. Outside the Onkaian Gate

The war was going badly. From the start,  
It'd been a mangle-managed martial dance,  
From heralds poorly tutored in their art  
To not securing quislings in advance.  
And yet, the bold invaders had a chance,  
For Thebes could not agree upon a liege—  
And so the army settled into siege.

A hot and dusty time they had of it—  
That windy summer was especially dry,  
And every wine-skin had its share of grit.  
Worn soldiers muttered, bored with standing by,  
With bitching past the usual supply—  
For lack of action made them pity wallowers:  
There was a drought of far too few camp-followers.

So when two edgy sentries on the road  
Stopped one man with six women of his own  
Trying to reach the town, the soldiers crowed,  
Thinking they'd have some fun. "Go on alone,"  
Said one to him, "these birds are ours to bone."  
His laugh was cut off, suddenly alarmed  
By women bristling sharply: they were armed.

The man glanced nervously at his attendants  
But didn't interfere. The sentry stared—  
The spear- and arrow-heads were bright respendents  
Glittering straight at him. His partner dared  
The route rankers take when they're ensnared  
By unmapped troubles: find an officer.  
The women let him go without demur.

After some pointed minutes, he returned  
With a commander, dusty from patrol.  
Sir looked them over as if unconcerned,  
While drinking from a skin—then broke his role  
When he saw who here really held control,  
Greeting a woman, "Hullo, Cyrene."  
She answered, "Amphiaraus," smiling easily.

They clasped right arms; the women, bows withdrawn,  
Stood down. The chieftain grinned. "So, it's been, what,  
A year ago last fall, since Calydon?  
(He shook his head) Bad business that.  
What brings you myrmidons to see our spat?"  
"A Theban lawsuit—if you'd let us through."  
Without regret, he told them, "No can do."

"Why not?" another asked, shifting her spear.  
This one was introduced by Cyrene:  
Lampito, her husband's other wife, her peer.  
He bowed and told them, "It's a seige, you see—  
None in nor out—not man, not dog, not flea."  
"But we are only women." In reaction,  
The chieftain grinned: "I've seen you gals in action."

He added, "What's got your chitons in a twist?"  
"Tiresias the Theban knows we're here,"  
A woman answered, stepping from their midst.  
He laughed, "I should think so—he's damned fine seer!  
As you well know by now, Philylla dear."  
He saw the nine-month babe she held. "Oh fun—  
That one-time woman sired another one."

A sentry asked, "That baby's his [in fact]?"  
"Indeed," Lamptio said, "that's why we're coming,"  
And at her sign, Philylla soon [unpacked]  
From swaddlings her sleeping child, mouth-thumbing.  
The men recoiled: hermaphroditic plumbing.  
Another sign made its ancestry clear—  
It had the seer's unmistakable ears.

The chieftan sighed, "Well, you must wait your turn."  
Before Lampito could engage dispute,  
Cyrene said, "Your hate must really burn—  
March all the way from Argos just for loot?  
I can't believe that _you'd_ take such a route."  
"Accept my hospitality—my tent,  
That is—and I'll explain our argument."

He led them, as the fiery sky embraced  
The western sun, past sentries, armed and wary,  
To custered tents of his encampment [placed/set/pitched]  
Beside the goddess Onka's sanctuary,  
Just past where Thebes's bows could harry.  
And when he reached the largest stitched-hide tent,  
One woman slipped away, on scouting [bent/sent].

Inside, their host, as graciousness required,  
Poured wine for all, and once the drink had braced him,  
Explained: When Oedipus the king retired,  
His oldest, Polyniekes, first replaced him,  
But soon his younger brother had displaced him.  
"My king, Adrastus, is helping in his own  
By giving back his son-in-law the throne."

And towards that, he'd brought seven southern chiefs,  
One for each of Thebes's seven gates—  
"My wife, his sister, promised seven griefs  
Unless I came and did what he dictates."  
He grimaced—but before he named his hates,  
Some officiers burst in and cried, "You bastard!  
You're hoarding five new women—and getting plastered."

Hand forced, their host then introduced the rout—  
And greetings quickly boistered to a party.  
Soon Amphiaraus had to bounce one out  
When captain [Talaus] got too free and hearty  
Presuming that a female fighter would be tarty  
Despite her acting cool, aloof, and snooty.  
(She was in fact quite loose—just not on duty.)

Which tussel made Philylla right amused,  
For she knew Kalonike well of old—  
But then she sobered: they had been refused  
_Before_ they got inside. Her heart flipped cold.  
So how in Hades could she be consoled?  
By trusting Cyrene's command, for one—  
True myrmidons knew how to get things done.

After this fuss, the absent scout returned  
To secret sign she'd found a way inside.  
Men asked her name; Areta, they soon learned.  
"The one who outraced Atalanta?" cried  
A disbelieving captain, starry-eyed.  
"Well, yes," she said, bemused. Men crowded round:  
True heroines were thin upon the ground.

With hosts distracted by their famous peer,  
The others flew the coop, soon slipping out  
Past weary sentries watching their frontier  
For traffic only from the town's redoubt—  
Not camp. Once clear, Philylla saw, without,  
The evening flickered seven clumps of fires,  
Each blocking just a gate—and resuppliers.

And here ahead, the great Onkaian gate  
Stood barred and bolted, black where fire'd charred it.  
The party passed by to another fate—  
They found the narrow postern, disregarded  
And, more importantly, but lightly guarded.  
They knocked—thrice, twice; a countersign replied.  
They passed: six myrmidons were let inside.

  


#### Part II. Inside, Near the Homoloides Gate

Confusions and alarms by torchlight. Who—?  
These weren't smugglers with more seige supplies,  
Nor camp-followers any Theban knew.  
When one chit shushed her hungry baby's cries  
And asked to see Tiresias— Surprise!  
And worse, it didn't clarify a thing.  
'Twas clear this was a problem for the king.

Lampito, as head former worker ant,  
Took charge of talking to this vexed committee  
(For myrmidons change up who's commandant:  
While Cyrene knew roads, she ran their city)  
Philylla's speaking was, perhaps, a pity,  
But maybe now some good would come of it:  
A king of Thebes must have a quicker wit.

Though that, it seemed, meant waiting till tomorrow—  
She shrugged, but, well, 'twas no emergency.  
They found guest lodgings, two rooms they could borrow  
From a laundress named Fat Myrrhine  
Willing to let them stay for a small fee.  
Since she accepted labor, coin, or kind  
And both her beds were clean, they didn't mind.

{rewrite: they expect host law to be in effect, so Cl gets huffy about the fee, but myrmies are practical and settle in} {scatter most of the next couple stanzas forward to the full intros to E}

Without discussion, one was given to  
The man, Clisthenes, and his fiancées—  
And he was glad of it, for hitherto  
They'd little privacy on travel days.  
Philylla, Thylakis, and him—gods praise,  
Alone at last! Except ... [he got] uneasy:  
That baby's genitals made him queasy.

Seeing him stiffen as she nursed her child,  
Philylla sighed—though still perplexed.  
She'd hoped he'd come to like what he reviled,  
But that her infant was born intersexed  
Had freaked him out and left him extravexed.  
Thus his condition for their getting married:  
He'd live with her, but not the babe she'd carried.

Philylla might have to the end resisted  
If her best friend had helped her [stand her ground/to stand firm],  
But Thylakis stood by when he insisted.  
Because Philylla loved both of them so,  
She [eventually] agreed to let the baby go  
Provided its father could provide for it—  
And thus this journey for a paternal writ.

So when this Myrrhine got gooey-eyed  
Over the baby, both her fiancée  
And fiancé observed her with their bride,  
Till feeling green Clisthenes turned away.  
Thylakis, in the balance, chose to stay,  
Joining the women with a cautious cooing sound—  
Though never touching it: a middle ground.

After another awkward night, Dawn rosed.  
King Eteocles [met/received] them in full state  
And when [they had] their [mission was/task] disclosed,  
He, like the Argives, said they had to wait:  
Tiresias was busy [divining] fate—  
"I won't disturb him while there's war to pay.  
Besides, who are you women anyway?"

{this is too brisk: as a younger son, E's position is precarious - to bring this out & focus on the war, split into two stanzas, one describing him, two question and answer - use image of, he sees the myrmidons as a flock of supplicants}

{Full introductions: They're myrmidons from Aegina, who as former ants don't play by all the human rules — Cyrene (supporting her Philylla) and Lampito (along because Th is her lieutenant), wives of the king of Aegina; Kalonike (from Calydon) and Areta (from Atalanta); and Philylla, her fiancé Clisthenes (merchant son who's freaked by the baby), and her fiancée Thylakis (town myrmie under Lampito; she's nonplussed by the issue of the baby but accepts that it's an issue), and her baby, Tiresias's child.}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan, such as it was, was to force the Myrmidons to resolve the war of the Seven Against Thebes as a precondition for settling the paternity suit. The party would have to cross through each of the seven gates of Thebes, and each time a myrmidon would be removed from the party, leaving in the end only Philylla and her baby confronting Tiresias.


End file.
